


edges

by poppunkpadfoot (StormVandal)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6234196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormVandal/pseuds/poppunkpadfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They can outlive war. They can outlive anything.</em>
</p><p>Remus and Sirius, beginning to end. (A collage of moments. A relationship pieced together. The birth and death of a constellation.)</p><p>Inspired by Halsey's "Young God"</p>
            </blockquote>





	edges

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on HPFF ages ago, but forgot to cross-post it :P Enjoy!

“We’re going to be legends.”

The four of them are sitting in their dorm room, the room that has become their stronghold over these past few months of school. Already they’re known as pranksters, mischief makers, and it’s a reputation that James and Sirius are eager to solidify. They want to leave a mark, make an impression.

Peter, well, he’s just happy to be included, willing to go along with anything if it means he’ll have friends. Remus would be lying if he said he wasn’t the same way. He’d be lying, too, if he said he didn’t enjoy their hijinks – the plotting, the risk, the thrill of getting away with things.

Yet the whole situation is precarious; Remus is acutely aware that he could lose it all if anyone were to discover the truth. He is unfortunate proof of what happens when humans court War too closely, and the wolf has made him grow up too fast. If the others find out, there’s no question that Remus will be discarded.

He isn’t planning to let that happen, though, and for now all is well. James’ eyes are shining with mischief as he continues speaking, outlining his newest scheme. Peter’s awestruck excitement is in stark contrast to Sirius’ cool demeanour – the former leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands under his chin; the latter is lounging on his bed, his hair swept back from his face, his eleven-year-old frame exuding confidence. Remus tries not to be jealous of how Sirius looks like royalty. After all, aren’t they all going to be legends, all four of them – the Marauders, as they’ve christened themselves?

At times like this, Remus can see it – the possibilities behind these late night talks, the possibility they’re creating something lasting. They sit upon a throne built of madcap ideas and the stars in their eyes. They are the kings of the world.

 

It all comes crashing down, eventually – his deception is discovered, as he should have known it would be. But instead of imploding, his universe expands. The others don’t cast him out; they don’t even look at him differently. He has visitors in the hospital wing after hard transformations, and when the waxing of the moon traps him in his bed, leaves him a pitiful, shivering, feverish wreck, he usually wakes up to find extra pillows and blankets piled onto his bed, sometimes accompanied by a library book or a Honeydukes treat. He’d expected to be cast off the mountain, instead, his place is cemented. It makes him feel less broken.

Sirius is the only one who seems particularly affected by the revelation of Remus’ condition; he seems relieved. Remus doesn’t ask him about it. He thinks he knows what Sirius is thinking. He knows he’s not the only broken boy sitting on the throne; he knows Sirius feels like a monster. He can’t blame him for being relieved that he’s not the only one.

But Remus, unlike Sirius, actually is a monster, and sometimes he feels like the wolf is eating him alive. No amount of kindness from his friends can make him whole again. He tries not to think about it

** 

Curses are flying overhead, a sinister cacophony of colours that dance off of windows. This isn’t the first time a mission for the Order has gone south, but Remus doesn’t think the chaos will ever stop being terrifying, especially when the odds are like this, two against five. He can see Sirius out of the corner of his eye, ducking and weaving. He looks almost careless, from the casual way he’s flicking his wand to the taunting grin on his face. His hair is falling out of it’s bun, his cheeks are stained red. He looks beautiful and dangerous. Remus isn’t afraid of him, not quite; but he is afraid for him.

Sirius plays hard and fast with his own safety, and Remus is losing count of the times he’s returned from missions bloodied or bruised or nursing curse wounds, all of which he downplays, as though he’s reveling in the pain and doesn’t want anyone to stop it. Remus doesn’t want to believe that Sirius thinks he’s disposable, worthless, deserving of agony; but he knows it to be true, and he sees the way James looks at Sirius with barely-disguised desperation on his face, and he doesn’t know what to do besides hold Sirius closer at night and put Essence of Murtlap on his wounds.

He knows what to do right now, though. He dodges a bolt of green light, grabs Sirius’ hand, and yells, “Run!”

As he drags Sirius around the corner, he can hear him laughing.

**

Sirius’ eyes are sterling silver and he looks at Remus like he’s made of gold. There’s two months left until they graduate, and war is brewing outside the castle walls. Neither of them knows what will happen when they leave; what jobs they’ll take, if they can take jobs at all - if their lives aren’t swallowed by the brewing storm. People speak in frightened whispers nowadays, walk with fear written into every line of their bodies, keep their eyes cast to the ground.

Sirius keeps his eyes cast to the sky. Remus keeps his eyes on Sirius.

It’s hard to feel worried about the war during the daytime. Night is a different matter; blankets provide no protection from monsters that are real, and silence leaves you alone with your thoughts. During the day, though, the grounds glow under the touch of the sun. The world is so bright. Sirius is so bright. He is so radiant that it’s no wonder Remus can’t see anything but him, sometimes. He traces gentle fingers over the scars fragmenting Remus’ skin, and Remus feels a little more whole.

War is no match for them. They can outlive war. They can outlive anything.

**

Remus is lying in bed, miserable and sickly, the silk sheets of his dorm bed doing nothing to warm him up as he shivers. The moon-fever is as strong as ever, and he hasn’t left his bed in hours, not even to go to dinner. James promised to bring him some bread (not meat; it makes Remus’ stomach turn when it’s this close to the full). Remus isn’t hungry, though. He’s lonely more than anything. He knows the others will be back soon, but he feels horrible and helpless, and it would certainly be nice to have someone to chat with.

He doesn’t even have the energy to pull out a book, so he just lies there, feeling quite sorry for himself. There’s sweat beading on his forehead and the shivers are getting worse. He almost starts to hope the others will take their time getting back, because he hates when they see him like this. The duality of the loneliness and the craving for isolation are familiar to him, and he doesn’t put much thought into it.

He’s taken by surprise when the door creaks open and Sirius pokes his head inside. He and James and Peter had only left half an hour ago, and it took a good ten minutes to get down to the Great Hall. He certainly hadn’t been expecting anyone back so soon.

“Remus?” Sirius says, and for once Remus is grateful not to hear his nickname. He’s feeling quite bitter towards the moon at the minute.

“Sirius, what are you doing back?” Remus gets out, propping himself up on his elbows. “Dinner just started, you only just left.”

Sirius shrugs casually, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. “I wasn’t hungry.” He doesn’t say _I was worried about you_ , but Remus can hear the unspoken words in his voice, and despite how much he hates being fussed over and pitied, he is grateful. He also doesn’t ask _How are you feeling?_ Remus is grateful for that too.

He walks over and settles himself down next to Remus on the bed. “Can I get you anything?”

Remus shakes his head, then regrets it – there’s a flare of pain and he hisses. “No. You can go back to dinner. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m not going back to dinner. I’ll leave you alone if you want, though.”

“No,” Remus blurts out. “Stay.”

Sirius stays. They don’t talk for a while; Sirius keeps eying Remus when he thinks he’s not looking, though. Remus doesn’t have the energy to be angry or embarrassed. The shivers are getting worse; they’re inconsistent, more like violent shudders than shivers, now.

“I feel like I’m dying,” Remus groans out after a while. It’s almost an outburst, by his standards – he tries so hard not to complain, to silently deal with it. It’s enough to burden his friends with that he’s a fucking werewolf in the first place without him complaining about it. But he’s miserable and his skin feels too tight and Sirius is looking so concerned and trying to pretend he’s not, and the words just come out. “I’m only thirteen, I’m too young to die.”

“You aren’t dying.” Sirius reaches a hand out and strokes Remus’ sweaty hair away from his forehead, and Remus forgets how to breathe for a moment – oh, he’s certainly dying, why else would he forget how to breathe? “I’m sure you’re feeling like absolute shit, but you’re not dying.”

“Are you sure? Everything feels rather hellish, at the moment.”

Sirius huffs out a little laugh. “Well then I’m double sure. As if you’d go to hell.”

“You think monsters go to heaven?” Remus says, and suddenly his eyes burn hot with tears.

They take him by surprise as much as they do Sirius, who leans over Remus, his hair falling down to frame his face. His dark eyes are earnest when he says, “You’re no monster, Remus.”

Remus’ laugh is much harsher than Sirius’ had been a moment ago. “I’m a bloody werewolf, Sirius!”

Sirius’ uncertainty is clear on his face – he’s unsure of how to comfort, insecure in his ability to show people he cares, Remus knows this – but his voice is firm when he speaks. “You’re human,” he says. “Right now. You’re human. Tonight you’re human.”

Remus is crying, now, and Sirius awkwardly uses his sleeve to wipe tears away, as though it’s a foreign gesture he’s only seen done to others (it probably is, Remus realizes later). “I suppose you’re right,” Remus says, his voice choked, and Sirius laughs, and Remus can’t help but laugh too.

When James returns with bread, Remus eats it.

**

Sirius runs away from home, and Remus doesn’t go to his side. The betrayal is still too fresh, sharp in his mouth like blood. He pretends he’s not worried, that he doesn’t care; he pretends so well that he almost believes it. Besides, he’s sure James has the whole thing under control. Sirius will be fine.

A week after it happens, Remus gets a letter full of words like “torture” and “disowned” and “nightmares”. He thinks of blood and pain and gaping, burning wounds, of the terrible hunger that exploded inside of him when the wolf smelled human flesh; he looks at himself in the mirror, looks at the angry white scar that sits fresh on his collarbone, and at the end of it all he goes to James’ house.

James lets him in without saying a word, but his surprise is obvious. He walks towards the stairs, gesturing for Remus to follow him. Upstairs, he opens the door to his room and waits in the hallway, clearly wanting to give Remus and Sirius some privacy but still be close enough to step in if anything escalates.

Sirius looks different; Remus’ first thought is _broken_ , shattered, all jagged edges and sharp lines. He’s sitting in the middle of James’ bed, staring down at his hands, which seem to be shaking slightly; he’s obviously lost weight, and the most noticeable difference is that his hair is cropped close to his head. The effect is that his cheekbones stand out starkly on his face, and his eyes look sunken and hollow.

Remus doesn’t know what to say.

“You didn’t have to come,” says Sirius quietly. “I know James made you.”

“He did no such thing.”

“I’m fine, and even if I weren’t it’s not your problem.”

Remus shakes his head and sits down on the bed, far away from Sirius but not towering over him anymore. “What did she do to you?”

“Nothing unusual,” says Sirius, jutting his chin out. “I’m _fine_. Prongs is fussing too much.”

It occurs to Remus, then, that maybe the edges were always there, that he just didn’t notice them until he got cut on one.

“You should stay away from me,” Sirius says after a long silence. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Remus raises an eyebrow at him. “What makes you think you’d hurt me again? Are you planning on it?”  
“’Course not, but I wasn’t planning on it in May either. It’s all I’m good for.” He’s looking Remus in the eye as he speaks, unwavering, his jaw set. Remus wants to look away, but he doesn’t. “All I do is hurt people.”

He won’t say anything else, and Remus leaves the room.

**

Remus’ first flat is small and dingy. It’s above a consignment shop and it smells like mold no matter what Remus does, and he’s still having trouble holding down a job so it’s partially paid for by the Order. He knows most people love their first flat, no matter how run down or dingy, but he can’t help but hate the place. He wishes he were back at school, that he could hide under the covers in his four-poster and pretend there’s no war.

Sirius comes over quite often, usually unexpectedly. Remus hates it at first, doesn’t want Sirius to see his shitty apartment, as though it will cast some kind of light upon Remus himself, revealing all the flaws that have gone unnoticed. He stops worrying about it so much when he realizes that Sirius’ own apartment is just as shitty as his, that he’s not the only one who can’t find work. But it still plays in the back of his mind.

Sirius is a new Aphrodite, fallen from the heavens to lounge on Remus’ couch, and when they fuck it’s the only time Remus sees Elysium. Monsters don’t go to heaven, after all; Remus hasn’t brought this up to anyone since Sirius wrenched it out of him a lifetime ago, but he’s sure it’s the truth.

Five years is a lifetime now. Funny how war does that.

In another world, if things were different, maybe he and Sirius would be living together, buying furniture from a Muggle thrift store and cooking together in a too-small kitchen. A proper couple. A world without war. Not the world they live in.

**

They are seventeen years old the first time they kiss, and it is soft and unsure, and Sirius’ hands are shaking. Remus wonders if Sirius has ever kissed like this before, if he’d ever gotten so nervous before about kissing someone that he trembled.

**

 _Don’t look back, don’t look back._ The darkness is pressing in on all sides; most days, he can’t see anything but the light at the end of the tunnel. It seems farther away every day. He keeps going. He doesn’t dare look back to see if Sirius is still with him; if he is, he is, and if he’s not, then looking back will do nothing but cement it. He has to keep going either way.

On the worst days, he wonders if the light he sees wavering in the distance – victory, peace, the end of the war – is anything more than a figment of his imagination, a product of foolish optimism. He longs to turn around, just for a moment, just to reassure himself that Sirius is still at his back; but he imagines turning only to see him being swallowed by the darkness, that wild look in his eyes and laughter ringing out from that beautiful, terrible mouth, and he keeps his eyes fixed ahead.

They are going to get through this, he tells himself; they will emerge at the end of the tunnel, step forward from the wounded earth into the sunlight. He pictures Sirius blinking away the sun spots in his eyes, tilting his head up towards the sky and smiling a real smile, and he keeps stumbling forward. It will all be worth it.

If he’d looked back, maybe he’d have realized that Sirius had stopped following him a long time ago.

**

It takes Remus a while to forgive Sirius after the incident with the Willow, but he does. He always does, perhaps too easily. He doesn’t like tension, doesn’t like conflict; it’s almost ironic, given what he is. And so he forgives Sirius, like he always does.

But Sirius is distant. He doesn’t talk to Remus when he can help it. He doesn’t come to Remus for help with anything, not a difficult assignment, nor the nightmares he’s been having as long as Remus has known him. It’s clear he meant what he said to Remus, that he thinks he’ll better off without Sirius in his life.

He confronts him, eventually, when he gets too sick of Sirius not meeting his eyes to stand it for one second longer. “Stop pushing me away,” he says, grabbing Sirius’ shoulder and finally, _finally_ meeting his eyes. “At this point, it’s like you’re just seeing how far you can push me before I break.”

Isn’t he already broken enough? He can see Sirius’ broken lines; can’t Sirius see his?

Sirius looks like he’s going to argue for a minute, but Remus holds his gaze; next thing he knows, Sirius’ arms are around him and relief is swelling in his chest. Things will be strange for a while, he’s sure, but they will figure this out.

**

He’s fourteen years old the first time he looks at Sirius and feels something stir inside him. Like so many other things, he doesn’t let himself think about it. He pushes it to that place in the back of his mind that’s quiet and numb, and he resolves, as he does with everything else there, not to revisit it.

Except it keeps happening. There’s only so many times you can resolve not to think about the same thing before it all overflows.

He can keep it a secret, at least.

** 

James and Lily are dead. Peter is dead. He’s told that Sirius laughed when they took him away, laughed and laughed and wouldn’t stop; he can hear it echoing around the sudden emptiness that is his mind, ringing in his ears, crawling over his skin. He gets in the shower and scrubs himself red-raw. Inside him, the wolf howls and howls.

**

The thrill that comes with mischief-making is settled in the pit of Remus’ stomach; it’s a familiar friend now, sharp but not uncomfortable, hard to resist and impossible to ignore. He watches in exhilarated silence as James waves his wand a final time, settling eight pairs of underwear onto the heads of the eight statues lining the hallways.

They’ll pull grander pranks in time, Remus is sure; after all, they’re going to be legends. For now, with their second-year knowledge and limited time, this will do.

James turns to Remus with a smug grin on his face, and that’s when Sirius and Peter come pelting around the corner. “Someone’s coming!” Peter pants out, not even slowing down, and James runs after him without a second thought. Remus is slower to react, and Sirius grabs his hand as he darts past him.

“Come on!” he says urgently, and pulls Remus along with him, and laughter bubbles up in Remus’ chest and out of his mouth, and, together, they run.


End file.
